The Holiday Spirits
by Heidi Ahlmen
Summary: This was originally a Christmas card written for two friends and now I've decided to provide it online as well.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 1

With a whisk of his robes Professor Severus Snape paced the lenght of his Potions classroom to inspect the works of the remaining students. Half a dozen sixth-graders had already finished their concoctions and dispersed, but the usual late crowd of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Crabbe, Goyle and Draco Malfoy were left behind, their potions nearly finished.

He arrived at the other end of the room just in time to witness Crabbe dropping a handful of copper coins into Longbottom's cauldron which began to hiss and overflow. Malfoy and Goyle watched with glee as Harry and Ron attempted to save the confused Longbottom boy's grade to no avail.

Snape was naturally aware that this sort of mischief would easily have merited fifty points to be taken from the Slytherin House, but he did not bother. He never did when it came to Malfoy and his lot – they were in his house, thus he was prepared to turn a blind eye especially when the harm came to Potter and his ilk.

"Professor Snape?" Harry's worried voice asked from beside him. Snape glanced at the ancient clock hanging from the wall. The students ought to have already left for McGonagall's class.

"Not a _word_, Potter," he spat out, making the boy's surname sound like a bad cherry being spat out. Harry looked as though he was prepared to push the issue, but remained silent. He had been seriously trying to behave himself in Snape's class recently – ever since the unfathomable pensieve incident. Harry often seemed apologetic, even, but Snape cut him no slack. It was a poor reimbursement for the ordeals he had suffered due to the unfavourable existence of the Potter clan.

He turned to the Longbottom boy. "Five points off Gryffindor, Longbottom. In addition you will turn in thirty inches of parchment on the remedial properties of dragonskin by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Well, Potter, what are you staring at? Off you go. Professor McGonagall is expecting."

The students left and Snape took secret delight in eavesdropping on the indignant muttering being exchanged between Weasley and Potter. When the door closed after them he walked to his desk, slumped down onto his chair and sighed.

Christmas holidays would begin the following day – Christmas day itself was only a few days away. In forty-eight hours the castle would be almost empty.

Dumbledore often travelled abroad for the holidays to visit colleagues at other schools, and almost every other faculty member travelled home to visit relatives. Only a handful of students would remain as well as Hagrid and Filch, the caretaker. And Snape himself. For twelve years running he had volunteered to act as teacher in charge for the holidays. It gave him both a reason to stay and an almost realistic sense of purpose. The reason to this tradition was, of course – even thought Snape himself did not often wish to think about it – the fact that he didn't have anywhere to go to. For years his circle of friends had consisted of other Death Eaters, and now that those times were gone he had made some acquaintances, but he wasn't exactly the heart of the party.

Hours later, after first hexing away the mess Longbottom's cauldron had created and organizing some bookcases Snape shook himself out of his silent reverie of thoughts and paused by the window. True, his classroom lay in the dungeons, but someone had been thoughtful enough to create the illusion of a view by casting a landscape spell on the construction which would change according to the hours. Now it sported a pitch black velvet sky with stars. It must've been late. Snape realized he had probably missed dinner. Just as he was about to dig out the keys for the door in order to leave for his quarters, the room suddenly turned very cold.

Freezing. Snape gathered his robes and pulled them tighter around him, silently cursing Peeves the poltergeist who was likely to be behind it all.

After he had walked halfway across the dark classroom and was approaching the door it banged shut.

Now profoundly annoyed, Snape dug out his wand and prepared to cast an _Alohomora_ to undo Peeves' jinx. But the words never came. Instead, someone interrupted him and he turned, startled.

"It won't do you much good to leave, Severus." A light, disembodied female voice floated to him from the darkest corner.

Snape sleeved his wand and faced the corner, his annoyance reaching astral levels. He had endured his fair share of student pranks, but he was tired, and no student was allowed in the dungeons after class hours. He would have to alert Dumbledore to this incident.

"Step out. I warn you, this warrants more than just points off the House cup tables," he spoke out. It came out more as a hiss from between cleched teeth than actual words.

He expected to see a student step out from the darkness wearing an invisibility cloak. They couldn't possibly have mastered a Disembodiment Spell yet, could they?

But a student did not step out. Snape swallowed hard as a whisky white plume of haze began to take shape in the darkness.

So it was a ghost then. Probably a distant relative of Nearly Headless Nick's. This visitor was quite late for his famed Halloween party – it had been held months earlier as usual. Snape's annoyance mildened, but did not subside.

His annoyance turned to something quite different, though, when the ghost stepped closer, now transparent but with distinguishable facial features. Snape accidentally dropped his wand as realization and horror struck in. "A... Artemisia..?" he managed to mutter out before staggering awkwardly backwards.

"Very perceptive of you," the ghost replied. It stepped into the area still lit by a lonely candle in the middle of the now dark classroom. Its edges shone a faint blue light. All the regular Hogwarts ghosts were quite ordinary whitish-grey forms, but this bluish tint spoke of something else than an ordinary apparition. As curious as Snape might've usually been as to the nature and origins of the unusual colour, he now felt slightly too terrified to pontificate over such trivial matters.

The matter than he was in the presence of a ghost naturally did not startle him. It was the identity of the ghost that made him uneasy. That, and the strange aura of emptiness that came in its wake as it slowly slid forwards in approach. Ghosts usually carried with them a sense of sadness due to the tragic circumstances of death that had lead to their infinite half-earthly wandering. There were poltergeists, of course, who brought along mischief rather than sadness, but Snape did not quite regard them as genuine ghosts.

The ghost of Artemisia Dollop was surrounded by a gaping hollowness, nothingness that Snape felt was tapping negatively into his life force as well. The apparition wore a blackish dress with the usual pointy hat of a witch, but the garments were raggedy and her hair hung in messy locks. The Dark Mark was clearly visible in her skin as the dress was ripped above it.

Snape sat down onto a desk, glaring the ghost. "Why have you come?"

The ghost of Artemisia did not flinch at his cold tone. In fact she appeared completely devoid of all emotion. "After all these years you still carry this hatred. Whether it is for myself of James I can not tell, but rid of it you must."


	2. Chapter 2

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 2

"And why is that then?" Snape crossed his arms. Fear was not what he was feeling anymore. Indignation at being lectured by a ghost had prevailed over that emotion.

"Because of what I have done I remain walking this Earth. Such a fate awaits you as well if you do not mend your ways. It will be difficult, but the means might not be as drastic as those that cost my life."

Alright then, he was listening. Even if he didn't buy this bollocks the fact that Artemisia had decided to visit him was a sight in itself. Snape liked apologies when he was at the receiving end. Forgiveness did not belong to his trait but he could well listen to groveling.

"I take it you remember what happened between us. But I doubt you know the end of my story." Without pausing to ask whether he was interested, the ghost carried on, "After you volunteered for the killing of Alandra came the muders of James and Lily. I could not stand it anymore. The Aurors were weak, effortless, so I decided to fight the Dark Lord and his minions in the most perilous of ways – by joining the Death Eaters and wreaking havoc from within. But I was too worn down by the grief and thus could not keep up the pretense. I was tortured and murdered by Voldemort. Personally. But in addition to this the Dark Lord deprived me of my soul as well. And this he has vowed to do to all who cross him. They're coming for you sooner or later, Severus."

Snape opened his mouth to argue, but was not given the chance. The ghost stepped closer, enclosed his hand in its feathery one and stared into his eyes with almost empty sockets. Only a faint light, dim as a muddy river, remained fixed on him.

"You are making enemies at an alarming rate, Severus. Any one of them could be the vote that turns your fate and leads you into the Dark Lord's hands. Any one of them. You must stop this alienating from the world, Severus."

Snape tore his chilled limb from the clutch of the ghost. "Who are you to offer me only these vague hints! If you want to help me you ought to offer something more concrete." Not that he was admitting to needing any help.

The ghost stood silent for a moment, not the least bit of perplexed by his outburst. No emotion played on its pale features. Visibly not much had remained of the Artemisia Dollop Snape had known. The she spoke quietly. "I can not force you forward. You must see it all in your own way." Suddenly the ghost glanced at the clock and began to speak more swifthly, as if in a haste; "Three spirits will visit you tonight, Severus. They will show you. I must go now. I bid you farewell and hope that our paths never cross again, for if they do I shall have failed."

With these words she began to fade away into nothingness. Snape stepped closer to do anything, to stop her, to ask some more questions, but soon she had disapparated and he was all alone.

Minutes passed and the clock chimed a quarter of an hour before midnight. Snape stood, perplexed, and finally dared to move. He returned to his desk and sat down – the comfort of the familiar surroundings helping him to exorcise the feeling of loneliness the ghost had left in its passing.

Artemisia Dollop. Truly a ghost from the past.

She had been in Snape's yearclass and caught his eye. She had also been one of the only girls in Hogwarts at that time who had taken any interest in her. But it had all been on a friendship-built level. As they had learned to know each other more thoroughly Snape's heart had slowly began to ache for her but her eyes had been fixed at a different direction – James Potter.

Who else. The arrogant rascal who wore and stole female hearts just to discard them like worn robes at his slightest whim. Artemisia had been one of his conquests, one that Snape had never been able to forgive – so blatant had the way in which he had stolen her been. Snape had made the mistake of admitting his feelings to another student whom he had mistaken for a friend. He had turned out to be something quite different later on – had spilled the beans to James who had been more than willing to use them to his advantage just to spite Snape.

After graduation Artemisia soon parted ways with James who was then settling down with Lily, another classmate. Snape had not had any desire to seek out Artemisia again – James had not been solely to blame in the situation. Artemisia had been a strong-willed Slytherin, and unless she had not condoned James' actions no affair would ever have surfaced.

Snape had joined Voldemort. So had Alandra, Artemisia's sister. Alandra had soon failed a task to the Dark Lord and had been ordered to be disposed of. Snape had indeed volunteered, and made sure the identity of the killer was brought to Artemisia's attention. He had not learned of the nature of her reaction, nor had he known what had become of her afterwards.

He was unwilling to admit he had felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the ghost but he had. Now that he still floated halfway between his Death eater past and his unwavering loyalty to Dumbledore he was unsure which of his regrets and emotions were due to the Black Arts and which ones genuine.

Artemisia remained a ghost because of something she had done – wasn't that what she had stated? Was she referring to joining the Death Eaters in the first place or some atrocity performed under the Imperius Curse? To Snape it did not really matter. His own past withheld quite a list of those. Even a longer list than Artemisia's. It was unlikely that anything could save him from the wrath of the Dark Lord.

The clock chimed hollowly again, startling Snape. The coldness had not disappeared. Instead, he began to shiver again as another wave of frost seemed to slither into the room from under the door and between the cracks in the walls.

Artemisia had promised him three more ghosts. Oh well. Better act along, then. He stood up, correcting his robes. "Come out, come out wherever you are," he hissed into the darkness. It was probably useless to light more candles – the deathly draft would likely put them out.

He did not have to wait long. He heard steps, then a crash and some cursing. Soon a robed figure walked into the moonlit area near where Snape was sitting. Moonlight – the landscape charm certainly seemed to have a sense of drama.

It was a man a few dozen years Snape's senior. The ghost scrambled to his feet – it had tripped over Longbottom's cauldron – and recognition dawned on Snape's face, combined with confusion. "Dumbledore?" he inquired in disbelief.

The old, scruffy-looking ghost of a wizard grinned widely and patted dust off its robes. "I," it began with a theatrical wave of his hands and a bow, "Am the ghost of Christmases Past. This form is merely an imitation, chosen due to the fact that Albus Dumbledore is one of the only people you ever take good advice from."

Snape snorted.

"But without further adue, we shall go." The wizard dug out a bag of something that seemed to closely resemble floo powder, sprinkled it onto himself and Snape, and suddenly the room began to spin. Soon it turned into a swirling furnace of forms and lights.

They endured this pandemonium for a few moments before falling feet-first onto freshly fallen snow.

Snape patted snow off his robes and shot the ghost a dirty look. To his suprise they had not left Hogwarts.

They were standing outside the West towers in the darkness. The ghost began pacing down an almost snowed-in path towards the castle. Snape caught up with him, annoyed. "I can't really see the relevance of this stunt. We could've just taken the West corridor."

The ghost grinned. "We have not only moved in place, but in time as well. Promenading down a corridor would have not helped in that respect."

"Nor can I see what this has got to do with Voldemort—"


	3. Chapter 3

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 3

The ghost saw fit to interrupt him. Noone ever interrupted Snape. He wasn't the type to be interrupted lest the culprit was foolhardy enough to suffer the consequences. Which usually were _dire_. "No, this has nothing whatsoever to do with the Dark Lord."

"Well," Snape muttered indignantly, "As you did say 'the past', I imagined the likely."

The ghost eyed him from below frost-covered, thick eyebrows – Dumbledore's eyebrows. "That you would be brought face to face with the atrocities you committed under the Imperius curse? Or under no curse but due order? You hardly need be reminded of those. No, this part of the past has more to do with the future. Or present, more like it."

Sensing a headache was on its way, Snape entered the Western Halls with the ghost. They silently climbed up to the rooms Snape had learned to regard as Dumbledore's office. At the door he was about to articulate the password, but the ghost simply raised its hand and the doors clattered open.

Inside it was warm; the fire was burning. Everything was as usual, except for the fact that the elderly wizard sitting behind the large desk was not Dumbledore but his predecessor, Professor Dippet. To Snape this struck as peculiar indeed, but on the other hand it was nothing compared to Artemisia Dollop paying him a visit.

They walked to the shadowy corner near the window and stood there, waiting. Snape would have wished to ask what it was that they were expecting, but the ghost stood in such stupor Snape doubted it would've replied.

Dippet looked worried – deep shadows lined his face. They deepened as the doors began to clank open. Enter McGonagall with a young man – obviously a student.

He had an ashen, narrow face with a sad expression. He was probably a seventh-grader. It was notable that he wore Slytherin colours in his uniform.

The ghost turned to Snape. "Remember him?" the spirit asked, and Snape glanced around, worried that his loud voice might've alerted the others to their presence, but they seemed as oblivious as they had been before.

"I cannot say that I do," Snape replied dryly.

McGonagall urged the boy to take a seat. Her face was gravely as well.

"Matthew –" Dippet began, addressing the boy who swallowed, "You know what it is that I must do. I will not hand you in to the Dementors, but we will have to expel you." He sounded apologetic. Your parents are on their way. You may wait for them in the common room after you have packed."

The boy stared at his hand. He seemed shy. He did not utter a single word. McGonagall gave Dippett a sad glance and escorted the boy out.

The ghost tugged at Snape's robe sleeve, urging him to follow. McGonagall walked the boy to the Slytherin corridor, patted his shoulder, and left.

He still did not say a word. On closer look, he looked horrified. Expectant. As though a terrifying innuendo was playing in his mind. He whispered the password and walked into the common room. The ghost and Snape followed – the ghost simply pulled him through the wall.

The common room was empty save for another boy with black hair with his nose buried in an old, mouldy, black-covered book. He sat by the fire, his back facing Snape and the ghost, so his face could not be seen, but to Snape there was something very familiar with him.

The ashen-faced, now slightly trembling boy stood in the middle of the room, clutching his left arm with his right one, unsure where to go. Then his fists clenched and he walked to the chairs next to the fireplace and faced the other boy. The black-haired youth must've noticed him arriving, but he acted as though he was merely a wisp of thin air.

"I know it was you," the ashen-faced boy whispered bravely, but retreated into the bedrooms the minute the other boy looked up. He put his book down and watched the other student running upstairs. As he stared behind the expelled student, Snape could finally discern his face. It was his own.

"Alright. So Gatsby was expelled. What's it to us?" Snape crossed his arms when they had returned to the gardens.

"Might you recall the reason?"

Snape dug out a handkerchief and blew his nose. It was so cold. "He'd duelled with another student. The usual."

The ghost stood under a black, frozen cherry tree. "This is not a Ministry inquiry that could land you in bureaucratic trouble. This is about you. Why was he expelled? Not by any chance due to something _you_ had done?"

Snape shrugged; he did remember the occasion but was not interested in pushing the subject.

The ghost sat down onto the snow. Snape did not do the same – ghosts were obviously less bothered by the cold than humans. "Someone had been practicing spells – _curses_, more accurately - on two thestral mares who died. You arranged him to be on location when the second one was found. You did this, knowing he was already on the list, that his parents had been attacked; that he himself was in grave danger."

Snape stole a glance at the lake. "And why would I have done such a thing?" he mused silently.

The ghost raised its voice. "Because you wished to be recruited by the Dark Lord and hoped such mischief would gain his attention. Matthew Gatsby, along with his family died the following Spring."

"I will not accept blame for _that_."

"Very well," the ghost replied. Snape was suprised that he would not push the matter further.

"What about the time when you taught Draco Malfoy the _Transcendens Vocalis_ spell even though you must've known he was up to no good?"

"What about it?"

"You must've guessed he would use it to torment Potter or some of the other students."

Snape scowled. "Students learn that sort of things all the time. Why do you think some of the books have been placed in the 'restricted section'? Anyhow, I can't see the relevance of bringing this up."

_So stubborn, this one_, the spirit thought, and sighed audibly. "I was merely giving an example as to the usual nature of your actions, even the most insignificant ones."

The ghost then sighed, snapped its thin, papery fingers, and suddenly the landscape changed again.

It was Autumn now. Snape's robes were no longer battered by heavy snowfall. Instead they now swayed in a crisp wind, and leaves of all colours were falling and twirling as though in unison. The path they trod was the same – they had not left Hogwarts' grounds.

A thin pillow of greyish, spectral smoke rose from Hagrid the gamekeeper's chimney, and Hagrid himself could be seen at the hem of the Forbidden Forest, carrying a handful of logs so heavy Snape himself could not have carried more than one at a time.

There was nothing unusual about the scene apart from one thing, Snape noticed as he unconsciously – old habit – glanced up to his own office window in the lowest floors visible from under the level into which the water had reached when there still had been water in the moat. Snape still could not comprehend why a window had been built below the waterline. On the other hand, the Hogwarts castle was full of enigmas.


	4. Chapter 4

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 4

The window itself did not look at all different, but the _curtains_ were drawn. And Snape never drew the curtains. He could only remember one occasion...

He groaned. "Not this, I beg you, ghost. This is over and dealt with."

The ghost simply shot him an unsociably dirty look, snapped his fingers, and suddenly they had entered the castle and were standing in a dungeons corridor. "Getting impatient, are we?" it scowled, and literally pushed Snape into his own office.

This he did remember. It was the unlucky occasion during which Harry Potter – _the utter gall of the brat! _– had dared to gaze into Dumbledore's pensieve, and got an eyeful of Snape's memories. There had been a good reason as to why he had decided to discard these particular memories, and Potter had known it. He must have. Snape still boiled with rage as he watched the boy peek into the pensieve and watch himself being humiliated by James Potter and his ilk once again.

After awhile Snape had to close his eyes for seeing himself again – now in his adult form and giving Potter the icy bollocking the boy had badly deserved – seemed to make him feel slightly disoriented.

When the office was empty again, Snape turned to the ghost. Oh, how he wished he had his wand. "You mellowing hypocrite obviously consider Potter's acts righteous! I have had it with you. I did not invite you. Out of the goodness of my heart I followed you into this pandemonium and the only examples you have prepared for presentation are this trivial!"

The ghost shrugged cheerily, and the ubiquitous finger-snap came again. But this time the ghost disappeared and Snape found himself alone in Dumbledore's office. He pat dried leaves off his robe, and prepared to leave the rooms to return to his chambers, but froze when he heard footsteps echoing away from the office. He peeked out into the corridor, and to his great surprise saw the backside of Dolores Umbridge – of all people – disappearing into the West staircase.

He must still be dreaming. Oh well. At least it wasn't for the amusement of that exasperating phantom anymore. _He ought to be sacked._

Footsteps again. This haunting business was getting tedious. This time it was Potter – _no suprise here_- who snuck quickly into Dumbledore's office – he even knew the password. _The little bugger._

But Potter wasn't in his usual arrogant state of mind. Instead, there were deep shadows under his eyes and he seemed worry-laden. Snape remembered how Umbridge had caught him in the end, after finding out the boy was trying to contact Sirius.

Potter knelt before the empty fireplace and Fawkes the phoenix let out a recognizing squawk. The boy ignored him, grabbed a handful of floo powder from a decorative box on Dumbledore's desk, and threw it into the fireplace. Soon green flames licked the stones, and a contact with Sirius Black was established.

Snape yawned. Listening to Harry Potter talking to his outlaw Godfather was not his idea of an interesting pastime. But his opinion soon changed as Harry explained his business to Black.

Snape suddenly gasped for air. This he had not known about. He hadn't had the slightest idea... The boy had actually risked both his neck and Sirius' only to ask him if they truly had been vicious to Snape. What did Potter care? The only reason Snape could imagine him wanting to discuss the matter with Sirius was to gloat and have a good laugh at Snape's expense, but for such a reason Potter would not have taken such a risk. And the look of shock and deep disappointment on the boy's face – begrudgingly Snape had to admit that Potter truly seemed to _care_. He sounded furious... at his father and Sirius!

Snape tore his eyes away from the boy, more confused than he liked to admit. As he turned away from Harry Potter the scene dissipated in mist, and he was alone in the Potions classroom again.

Snape had been promised three ghosts. And it did not take long for the second to arrive. As a matter of fact, it had already been waiting for him in the minerals & miscellanious ingredients cupboard when he apparated back. Snape lit a few candles, deep in contemplation, before even noticing the clattering noise the spirit was making.

Soon the door opened quickly with a clatter, and a house elf tumbled out. He had been feasting in Snape's store of sugar in the closet, no doubt.

"Let me guess. You're the second spirit, sent here to test the limits of my patience."

The elf got his feet planted on the ground again, and looked up at him in that worshiping way they always did. "Oh _Sir_, I do not mean to test the Good Sir's patience. I am only here to take good Sir to the Gryffindor tower."

"You must be one educated elf," Snape scowled.

The creature stared at him in a way that spoke of confusion.

Snape decided for a more charitable approach. "I meant that you can use a pronoun when speaking of yourself. But let us not waste anymore time. You can go. I know my way to Gryffindor tower perfectly well," he assured. It wasn't like him to be civil to house elves, but Snape only wanted this over and done with. And bantering with an elf would certainly not aid at all.

"Oh but _Sir_!"

Snape cringed.

"Sir does not know the password, and I must apparate good Sir to the tower. It is written so."

"Is it now?" Snape cocked an eyebrow. His usual luck to be stuck with surplus spirits.

The elf snapped its fingers in the same fashion as the Dumbledore ghost had done as though trained to imitate, and Snape considered it no suprise to find himself in the Gryffindor tower.

Longbottom sat beside the window, looking dire and gazing out into the darkness of the lakeside.

"What is he doing up? He should be in bed, trunk packed for the holidays. Prefect Weasley does not seem to be up to his duties. I shall speak of this to McGonagall-"

"Shh!" The elf whispered, and suddenly looked very apologetic. It must've been horrible to him, commanding a wizard instead of being commanded.

Longbottom walked to the commonroom tables, picked up a roll of parchment, and threw it into the fire. He did not seem furious, only resigned.

The elf turned to Snape. "Good Sir Longbottom can not go home, _Sir_. Good Sir Longbottom has not finished his Potions essay and has not got enough time. Miss Granger tried to help, but good Sir, not even Miss Granger could write thirty inches in such a time. Now Good Sir Longbottom can not visit his parents in St. Mungo's."

Snape tried to keep himself a cynic, tried to convince himself that the agonies of a student did not touch him. But they did. But he did not feel obliged to indulge in the issue with an elf.

The elf scuttered to the now waning fire in the fireplace, and poked the ashes with a toe. The remains of Longbottom's essay smoked, half transformed into ashes.

"Are we free to go now?" Snape enquired.

The elf shot him a rather exasperated look, thought for a minute, and then shook his head determinedly. "Good Sir still doesn't understand, so I must break the rules a bit here. Good Sir must see. It is not my work description, the future, that is , but it _is_ Christmas, after all..."

The elf snapped its fingers, and they disapparated, only to appear in a white corridor a split second later.

"Where are we now, if I may ask?" Snape sighed. It seemed that fury simply would not roll the wheels with these ghosts, so he could just grin and bear it.


	5. Chapter 5

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 5

"Good Sir hardly needs to ask," the elf retorted and hopped onto a nearby gurney. It disappeared under the sheets, and then whispered; "Room 3426, Good Sir."

_If he calls me 'Good Sir' once more he can well consider his neck wrung..._

With a swish of his robes, Snape entered room number 3426.

It must've been Christmas Eve. So this was what the elf had been speaking of – he was the Ghost of Christmases present, so future was not strictly his field, but Christmas was a bit of a loose term at best.

The place was St. Mungo's, no doubt about it. Room 3426 lay in a restricted access ward – one that housed those unfortunates who had been mentally disturbed by magic.

Inside the room a worn-looking Christmas tree sported only a few dusty decorations. The whole place looked forlorn. On a double bed, a couple with deep shadows under their eyes slept restlessly. They were dressed in hospital garb, hair dishevelled and dirty, hanging in locks. Had they opened their eyes the expressions would have been vague, uninterested and empty, devoid of all humanity and intellect.

Next to the window, wide awake, sat a boy. Longbottom again. So this was his parents' room. Even though Snape knew he was nonexistant to the time which he was visiting, he couldn't help but sneak around quietly, feeling as though a mere loud intake of breath would shake the boy out of his obviously agonied reverie.

So this was the way Longbottom spent his Christmases. With parents who had been shaken out of their minds with a well-performed _Crucio_. He knew for certain it had been well-performed; it has been his own doing.

Snape's fingers curled into fists. This was old news. What was here for him to see?

The elf appeared at his side and he turned to face the little hangy-eared creature. "How _long_," he spat out, no longer able to contain his rage, "How long must I endure this? How long must I be reminded of Voldemort's time? And who are you to remind me?"

The elf shot him an annoyingly sympathetic look. "Good Sir still does not understand so I must explain. See, Good Sir, it is not about the Death Eaters—"

"Oh spare me you dimwitted gnome. If this isn't about the Death Eaters then what? I know I'm going to spend the rest of my mortal days in remorse, in such a way that is impossible for you to grasp. I'm paying for this, _every second of my life_," he snarled, glancing at Longbottom again. He was still sitting by the window, staring out into the darkening night.

The elf tugged his robes, desperate for attention.

"_What!_"

"Good Sir does regret this all, he does and it is all and well. But Good Sir does not understand, he has not learned, that not only greatly bad deeds have a very, very ill effect. It is those little things, Good Sir, that Good Sir does, that are still doing bad."

"You are implying that I am wrong to stall Longbottom from coming to spend Christmas here? That his holidays would not be happier at Hogwarts? Have you any sense of proportion?"

"No, Good Sir. Good Sir simply should not treat people so badly. Good Sir might not realize the impact of those actions to his own well-being."

"What have Longbottom or Potter got to do with my well-being, if I may inquire?" Snape crossed his arms. Perhaps he did treat Neville slightly harshly, but the boy was a walking disaster when it came to potions! And the fact that his parents... well, perhaps there was a reason he ought to be given some leeway. But Potter, he was another matter completely. Nothing, truly _nothing_, could make up for his shortcomings.

The elf looked at him as though it had heard what he'd been thinking, sighed, and snapped his fingers.

Suddenly Snape found himself falling harshly onto his own four-poster bed through the heavy upper velvet draping which ripped with a sharp sound. The elf was nowhere to be seen.

The window was open for some reason, and a cold draft shifted through Snape's bedchamber. He clambered to his feet to close the shutters and then climbed back into his four-poster bed decorated in Slytherin colours. He remembered how proud he'd been to bear the colours of the one house that was famous for its former occupants – cunning, ruthful wizards. Some had gone all rotten, yes, but many had walked great roads amd become legends.

Then on came James Potter and his ilk who were so determined to make his life a misery that his delusions of grandeur were constantly interrupted by their childish pranks. He had wanted, oh how he had _craved_, for a means to stop it, and Hogwarts magic simply was not powerful enough. He discovered the Dark Arts, and they gave him a sense of power no hex played upon James Potter could ever have given. He did not care anymore for anything else than recognition – that of Voldemort. And the events that followed he did not wish to recall. It had been his error. And he regretted making such a miscalculation, taking a course in life lead by a madman who pulled all with him to the depths. The depths from which Dumbledore had saved him at the eleventh hour.

He did not want to encounter the last ghost. What could it possible show him that would change anything? He had changed since his Death Eater times, but some things simply were in his character and there was no altering that.

He did not know how long he had lain in bed. Hours, perhaps, lost in contemplation.

When the curtains began to shift in a breeze again, he stirred. The ruddy window had opened again, he reasoned, and prepared to lift his feet onto the cold floor.

But the window was not open. For a moment Snape thought that the ghost of Artemisia Dollop had returned, but this was different.

He grabbed his blankets and coiled them around him. It had suddenly gotten very cold indeed. If he blinked hard he could see frost forming in the windows, lit by the moonlit. Frost forming on the _inside_ of the windows.

The room seemed darker, quieter, lonelier – as though a Dementor had glided in. But something told Snape not even Dementors could compete here – this was much worse.

His body began to turn rigid in the extreme cold, and he was slowly consumed by an icy desperation that seemed to fill him, stop his blood, seep into his bones and carve them hollow.

All noise disappeared. The clank of falling snow in the eaves, the sound of candlewax dripping onto the stone floors, the swishing sound Peeves made as he flew in the corridors – everything evaporated. Nothing existed outside these darkened rooms.

And then the blue mist began seeping in. It entered through mouseholes, crept in from under the door, from the window frames, from under the bed.

Approaching hysterics, Snape decided to use whatever hex he could muster to stop this. Not this. He did not want this. He did not know exactly what was making its way into his rooms, but he had a ruddy good guess...

His hands simple could not move. Whether it was due to fear or the cold, he could not tell.

The mist slowly seeped in like black ink. It gathered onto the floor and slowly, a tall, black, cloaked figure rose from it. A creature more terrible than anything.

_Voldemort_, was all Snape's cracking, icy lips could whisper out.

He felt like floating. Disappearing into darkness. He knew he was no longer in his bed, and that the presence of the Dark Lord had not disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 6

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, was a corridor. Unlit, filled with pain and despair. Slowly his senses began to return, and he discovered he was walking the corridor, following the dark spectre.

Without a word – a grim yet fresh change from the incessantly chattering elf – it raised a bony hand and a door opened. In the absense of light Snape could only make out the outline of its fingers and could not say for certain if there was any flesh on top of the stick-like limb.

In they walked, as silent and somewhat non-existant observers.

It was a scene that brought a lot of memories to Snape. He had been on the giving end of such treatment on numerous occasions, and his gravest fear was that he himself might face his demise at such a terrific gathering.

Black candles flickered in an endless chamber decorated with alchemic symbols. Black-clad figures, both men and women, with expressions of malice, faced a forlorn and horrified-looking young man in the middle. _Potter again_.

Snape swallowed and dared himself to glance at his escorting ghost. It nodded, face hidden by the low-hanging hood of its robes. Its eyes were not visible, yet Snape knew exactly when it was looking at his. His skin prickled and he felt the Dark Mark awaken in burning agony and the powers he had turned his back on stirred somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind; tempting, seducing.

Potter lay on a crumpled heap on the floor, raising his head shakily. He was no longer a boy but a young man. He had an arrogant gait but the hunch of his shoulders betrayed his feelings – they told of a man aware of his impending doom only moments away.

The circle of Black witches and wizards included many Snape knew personally. Malfoy, The Lestrange woman. And Allendon, who was raising his wands towards Potter – Snape had to admit he felt sorry for the lad – and wearing a triumphant smile.

"For the last time, Potter, who is he? Just a name, Potter, nothing more, it is not as though we are asking you to hand him over – or her, at that matter – to us in person. Just a _name_," –he played with a word as though it was a sugar-coated daffodil – "For the one who has been disclosing the Dark Lord's deeds to Albus Dumbledore. No more begging of mercy, no more lies, Potter. Just a name."

Snape closed his eyes. This was about him. If Potter said his name, it would be the end. He would die at the hands of Voldemort.

The dark, cloaked figure behind him was certainly the Ghost of Christmases Future, and if this was the future, he did not want to know. If he heard the words, he decided he would take his own life. He would not die via the _Kedavra_. Never. No matter his dark deeds worthy of Azkaban, he did not deserve this. Noone did.

His eyes flew open. Potter's cracked lips parted, and he turned to his accompanying ghost, panicking. He was too frightened of the scene to fear for the spectre anymore, and now dared to stare into the darkness within its hood.

"WHO ARE YOU! REVEAL YOURSELF!"If he could distract the ghost, the scene would perhaps halt, and he would be spared from hearing the words that were capable of draining his life out of him.

The ghost nodded and slowly, its hoods coiled down to reveal a skeletally pale, worn and thin face. Snape found himself staring into the hollow eyes of... himself.

The ghost was him, ten years on top of his current age. It looked dreadful, pitiful, and suddenly Snape no longer feared it. Instead, a rebellion rose within him.

His hand lunged for its face, ready to tear it, push it into a wall, anything to stop this.

But his fingers clutched thin air and the ghost slid into shadow like ripples on a pond. Panic-stricken, Snape turned just as Harry Potter's defiant eyes bore into those of his adversaries, and he prepared to hear the word that would condemn him.

But it never came. Potter smiled wearily, and uttered a single word; "Never."

Then the world dissolved in blackness again.

Snape awoke in his own bed. For a moment he was unwilling to open his eyes, fearful of discovering he was still in the presence of ghosts, but something told him this was not the case.

Sunlight filled his rooms.

He literally leapt out of bed, his thoughts in a flurry. He checked his standing clock by the doorway – it was the morning of July 23th! In a few hours the students would be leaving for holidays. All except for Longbottom and Potter, perhaps.

He almost ran out of his chambers before remembering it was perhaps not dignified for the Head of the House of Slyhering to run around in a nightshirt, so he quickly changed into his robes and after tidying the mess he'd created upon swallowing down a haste breakfast, he left the Slytherin tower and headed for the Gryffindor one.

The Fat Lady proved quite a worthy adversary, he had to admit. He did not have the password nor did he care to inquire it from McGonagall. But he had to get in. Luckily the exasperating Weasley prefect – Percy? – had agreed to let him in.

He found Longbottom snoring on the big commonroom table, ignoring the gobsmacked expressions on the faces of about a dozen Gryffindor fourth-years, and rapped his knuckles onto the table. Longbottom was startled awake and he nearly fell of his chair when he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the almost blackishly brown eyes of Severus Snape.

"Prof.. Professor Snape, I haven't... I mean, Sir, I haven't finished the essay yet, it's just that—" He was panic-stricken and normally the fact would have provided Snape with quite a lot of delight, but the accursed ghosts had deprived him of this. _Oh well_.

He decided to set his words carefully. He did not want to appear as an old softie either. "That is quite alright, Longbottom. I do understand you have certain... _obligations_ on your holidays. I am willing, just this once, to let the essay go."

Longbottom looked as though all his birthdays had come at once and Death himself had walked in with a neatly wrapped gift.

"_However_," Snape added, trying to add a bit of a charming snarl to it but to no avail – "I am expecting a marvelous fifty inches of parchment upon your return to Hogwarts." He turned on his heels and left the Gryffindor tower, hearing Longbottom mutter a very polite "Yes, Sir" behind him.

As he walked down the stairs, he could hear cheerful yelling from the tower. But his work was not yet done. Potter was left.

His chance came later that evening. Potter had not travelled to Surrey to visit his Muggle surrogate parents, so Granger and the second-to-youngest Weasley had stayed behind to keep him company. They along with a handful of other staying students lounged to dinner just as most of the staff were already gathered around the faculty table.

Snape was late. He'd been working – correcting a set of exams and the lousy marks thereof were making his blood boil. The second-year brats wouldn't know what hit them come Spring term.

When his candle flickered out he decided he was ready for a large portion of turkey and some wine, perhaps.

In the Great Hall he spotted Potter and his two friends sitting in the middle of the Gryffindor table, chattering loudly.

"—He's gone bonkers, positively, George told me, he'd been there when Snape stormed into the common room—"

Snape grinned as he slowly promenaded down the hall, listaning intently.


	7. Chapter 7

**This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.**

**T**he **H**oliday **S**pirits

by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter 7

"Anyways, _I_ think he's just been hit with a Positivety Charm—"

That must be the _charming_ Miss Granger, then.

Potter, on the other hand, did not seem too interested. Instead, he looked as though he was sulking, stabbing his portion of turkey absently with his fork.

"What's with you, anyways?" Weasley asked, mouth full of butterbeer.

"It's just that... Well, you all could've gone home, and... You can't stay here during the summer hols, can you? Nor can I."

Potter was probably thinking about the Muggle-Dursleys. Ah well, time to show him he did not hold a grudge over the pensieve thing. Time to ensure Potter would not give in to hating him after finally being thoroughly convinced that there was no sympathy to his existance in Snape. Time to ensure he said "never" when the suitable moment came.

He wasn't too bad, Potter, on a closer look. After all, the boy indeed felt malice towards his father after finding out about the incident concerning Snape, James and Sirius.

Snake shook his head. Some things were just too cheesy for his taste.

As he passed Potter's table he patted him fatherly on the shoulder, smiling vaguely. "There there, Potter. It can't be that bad. Have a butterbeer," he dryly remarked, and after leaving the scene slid into his seat in the faculty table.

A few yards away, Harry, Ron and Hermione were positively choking on their gravy. Harry began staring at his own shoulder as though it was on fire and Hermione turned his gaze to Professor Snape sitting at the faculty table, now completely engrossed in lively conversation, his usual, unpleasant expression visible.

Ron, on the other hand, soon recovered and began attacking his food again. Hermione and Harry turned to face him, uncapable of understanding how he could so easily dismiss such a world-turning event – Snape, the git, being civil.

"What?" Ron asked them, mouth full of turkey, "He's gone all bonkers. I told you but you wouldn't believe. As for you Harry, you never believe anything unless it's coming from Hermione, and Hermione, stop staring at him as though you fancy him or something, frankly, it's giving me the creeps---". As usual, the volume of his voice had risen to a level where all in the hall could hear him. Poor boy, whose breaking of voice had come early.

Pretending he was listening to Madam Hooch's incessant lecture of Quidditch finesse, Severus Snape suppressed a gleeful smile.

Perhaps this Christmas would be different.

The End

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit work of fiction. I do not own the characters featured therein apart from Artemisia Dollop, but as a gesture of goodwill I donate her to Professor Snape.

Snape was not harmed during the making of this motion pict... fanfic?

I know, I know, it's a piece of fluff, but aren't Christmas stories supposed to:)

And yes, I am aware that this is a shameless Dickens ripoff – and what's worse; it was entirely intentional.

The creation of this story required some 4,6 litres of iced coffee, make-believe parchment, six candles, nine different Christmas albums (four of which I now hate), eighteen pictures of Professor Snape in his elusive black robes, one full Moon, one good idea and some 836 bad ones, Mozart's Requiem (the part 'Rex Tremendae' fit "Voldemort"s ghost just perfectly), one pizza Kotzone (flavour MexiKana), countless cell biology lectures, one metre of red ribbon and a black velvet dress.

A big thanks to Tanja Karpela, Minister of Culture for having absolutely nothing to do with this.

standing ovation

the sound of the crowd dispersing

distant sound of thunder

the curtain falls

Niin ja hyvää joulua.


End file.
